A writer on depression/lonliness...

[Guest guest]

http://www.theglobeandmail.com/servlet/ArticleNews/TPStory/LAC/20041230/COUPLAND\

30/TPEntertainment/TopStories

Mirror, mirror on the page

For his new novel Eleanor Rigby, Canada's arbiter of the cool and the hip

drew on his own long-fought struggles with loneliness and depression,

ALEXANDRA GILL writes

By ALEXANDRA GILL

Thursday, December 30, 2004 - Page R1

WEST VANCOUVER, B.C. -- Ever since Coupland zoomed into the

Zeitgeist with Generation X, his 1991 debut novel, the Vancouver author has

often been accused of trying too hard to be hip.

Things change.

There's nothing remotely hip about Liz Dunn, the fat, chronically single and

" unsalvageably plain " narrator of Eleanor Rigby. Like the novel's namesake,

she is one of the world's lonely people. So lonely, in fact, she wakes up on

Saturday mornings with the dreaded realization that she has two entire days

to kill before shuffling back to her boring job, where she'll boot up her

computer, as she does every morning, and count the number of days until,

according to government statistics, she will probably die.

Liz Dunn is also, says Coupland, the most realistic character he's created.

" I actually feel like I'm talking about her behind her back, " he explains

with a shudder of mock guilt, when we meet to discuss his ninth novel the

week before Christmas -- one of the loneliest times of the year.

The novel has received mixed reviews. Some critics agree that lonely Liz is

Coupland's most intriguing character yet. Others say she's completely

unconvincing because, for all her crabby frumpiness, she's one sharp wit.

" Her folksy voice is just too funny, " Teddy son writes about the

" sitcom-perky " character in the Scotland Herald.

" That's insulting, isn't it? " says Coupland, who has made loneliness a

continuing motif in his books, but never quite so directly. " What? Only

unattractive, boring people can be lonely? It exposes a very strong bias in

the culture. "

In person, Coupland is much more shy than his reputation as a savvy,

globetrotting chronicler of the slacker generation would suggest. At first

he is nervous, almost awkward, avoiding eye contact and taking extremely

long pauses before answering a question. He seems exactly like the type of

contemplative person who thinks a lot about loneliness.

" I find lonely people aren't allowed to exist, period, " he says, alternately

sipping a cup of coffee and a glass of white wine.

" When you're lonely, that's all you can think about. Then the moment you're

not lonely, you run away and avoid lonely people altogether because you

don't want to be reminded of that part of your life. So we don't talk about

it. And when it happens, most people don't know what it is. They think it

must be clinical depression, or an allergy. I think because it is lumped in

with depression and other medical conditions, people want to say, 'Oh, just

take your Paxil and come back when you're feeling better.' But it's not like

that. "

The difference, he explains, is that you can treat depression, but not

loneliness.

" Depression is an extreme form of homesickness. The only cure for

homesickness is going home. I think loneliness is when you feel homesick,

but there's no home to go to. Even if your parents are both alive and living

in the same house and you go back and sleep in the den or see your old

school friends, there's no past to go back to. It's a mourning for something

that doesn't exist. "

Coupland, who turns 43 this week, confesses to being seriously lonely after

he left home and began studying sculpture at Vancouver's Carr

Institute of Art + Design.

" I used to be terrifyingly skinny. Just like stick-insect skinny. I used to

think I was hypoglycemic and that's why I felt bad all the time. I made the

best friends of my life at art school. I thought this feeling had to be

biological. There was no cause and effect. It was just loneliness. "

Coupland is not so skinny any more -- but more svelte than he's been in a

few years.

He is wearing casual khakis and a shiny-white, sweat-licking sports top. His

hair and goatee are slightly grey. And as the conversation veers off into

tangents, he becomes much more comfortable. As we bounce from cankers and

scurvy (he drank lots of OJ when he thought he was hypoglycemic) to typing

(he's a two-fingered typist and still prefers longhand), it also becomes

clear why he prefers e-mail interviews. He's a strayer.

Coupland isn't lonely any more, either. His cure -- the place he now calls

home -- is a West Vancouver beam-and-glass bungalow just down the hill from

the restaurant we're in, only a few blocks away from his childhood home,

where his parents still live. Coupland says he loves walking around the

streets, bumping into people he's known all his life. And he especially

enjoys the company of the older people who populate his hood.

" Eighty is the new 65. Honestly, I know so many 80-year-olds. Here in West

Vancouver, 60 per cent of the population is over 65. Actual fact. "

In addition to loneliness, Coupland has suffered from depression. " I used to

crash every five years. I'm long overdue for one now, " he laughs.

" It kind of keeps you humble, " he continues. " There were a lot of people to

whom I wasn't really real until after I had that first crash. Then they can

sort of see something in your eyes. 'Okay, now I can start dealing with

you.' "

Suddenly, Coupland looks up with a startled 'aha' look in his eyes.

" I should have had Liz crash at least once. I shouldn't even be saying this

out loud, but yeah, I think I should've done that. "

He describes his own crashes as month-long stretches of complete

obsessive-compulsiveness. " It's like, when you wake up at 7 a.m. -- for me,

that's like the middle of the night -- and you know you should be sleeping,

but you can't, because you forgot something or you don't have enough sugar

in the house. It's just something dumb. "

He shakes his head again, still obsessed about Liz's even-keeled steadiness.

" I can't believe I'm sitting here dissing my book. "

Coupland's long bout of loneliness might be over, and his depression dormant

for now, but homesickness is a condition that plagues him quite frequently.

" I spent my 20s and 30s travelling and going everywhere. I can't do that any

more. I get homesick. Not just homesick, it's almost puking-in-the-toilet

homesick. I just want to be home. It really affects what I do and where I do

it. "

Take September 10, 2001: A Social History of the 1990s, for instance.

Coupland's one-man monologue, commissioned by the Royal Shakespeare Company,

premiered last October at Stratford-upon-Avon as part of the venerable

British company's New Work Festival. Despite middling reviews, the play was

supposed to have a second run in March.

" I just can't do it, " he says. " It's the homesickness thing. "

Eleanor Rigby is a novel about change. Liz doesn't stay lonely forever. And

as many reviewers have noted, Coupland's writing has also gone through

significant changes in recent years. Rather than dwelling on the damage done

by a materialist society in godless times, he has begun to see the potential

of personal growth through loss -- and loneliness.

" I used to think people never change, " he explains. " I've seen so many

people I know who have changed -- people I thought were lost causes. I'm not

going to name names, obviously. But that was unexpected, and only in the

last couple of years or so. I think it only happens when you get older.

" You go through everything you go through across the years. Would you go

back and do it all over again? No, damn it. All those experiences made you

you. They weren't easy. But you come through it, and you're a better person

for it. "